#mysterange

[texasssmash]

Wip Weenis Day. ignore how many i’ve missed im on quentin beck and dr strange brainrot

-

When he woke up, he was alone.

He’s not positive how, on either account; after all the failure, screaming 16 year olds, ricocheting gunshots and mild to moderate bleeding, he made his last hoorah- framing Spider-Man, revealing his deepest darkest secret and painting himself as the hero. All the things he was best at, really, and if we was going to die in a municipal buildings bridge in a heap of his own broken drones and ambitions, it would be doing what he did best.

And yet, he was not dead.

Quentin recalls throwing up that final illusion, before those lovely, priceless glasses were stolen from him (after the kid willingly gave them to him, too!) and laying face down in his own misery, and ‘died’ right before the kid. EDITH had helpfully reported Quentin was ‘deceased’, Parker almost crying over his ‘corpse’, and it was all very sweet, Quentin was touched. Despite his attempts to kill the kid, he was fond of him. Under different circumstances, they could’ve even worked together. He was smart.

Not smart enough to realize Mysterio would’ve had contingencies to fake his own damn death, of course.

It was, to be fair, a lucky thing those functions even still worked- Parker busted his helmet up pretty well. Along with literally everything else and all his plans, but oh well, he’s recovered from worse!

He’s made his bed, nice and tucked with a mint on top. He’s made the worlds most recognizable superhero (second only to Ironman) number one public enemy, murderer of the beloved, brand new up and comer, Mysterio.

What a tragedy.

Back to his current circumstance, he’s currently laid out on the floor of some empty room. Linoleum floors, concrete walls and popcorn ceiling, now with a hole in it- that might’ve been him. Tables stood in threes with chairs tucked in, ready for a conference or secret meeting. Quentin, currently, was laid out in the center of one such table. Wooden, else it would have broken under the weight of one whole jackass.

Which is what he was.

He had made some missteps on his path to greatness- he sees them in broad colors, now, no projections needed. He groans, partially from complete frustration and mostly from his probable broken bones and definite gunshot wounds. They all felt fairly superficial, which was one bonus on this safari shit pile of a day, otherwise he’d have likely been dead before he woke up. Lucky him.

Quentin moans, again, as he rolls over, debris of ceiling, walls, glass and dust poof off of him in a cloud of asthma mixture, which he’d left behind in his youth, thankfully. His suit was fairly trashed, which, ok, it obviously needed some god damn improvements anyway.

He can’t even breathe for a minute, the pain flares up with such vengeance- almost as revenge for his somewhat peaceful time unconscious.

Quentin could very well black out again- who's to say, really, but what finally brings him squarely to consciousness is this- sizzling, vaporous sound, something like the faintest smell of heat and ozone. He leans up the most his battered body will allow him at that moment, the most resigned part of himself wondering if someone the building caught fire and was about to rain rubble and peril yet again upon him, but instead sees a sparking, mind bending portal open out of thin air, a doorway carved into reality. If Quentin hadn’t spent so much time with illusions, he might have thought he was hallucinating- although, they aren’t such terribly different things.

And then someone steps through.

From Quentin’s perspective, he’s out of sight- this portal opened in the hallway into another wide room, giving him only half the picture, but the man who steps through is mumbling something inaudible, a great, red cape fluttering behind him. He can see black hair, streaked with white at the temples, and hands that gesture strangely, before they still and the portal fizzles out of existence.

The man seems to notice the general hostility of the air quality, and starts coughing, and trekking through the rubble, down the hall and past Quentin’s eyesight.

Quentin collapses quietly back onto the table, and asks himself some questions.